AS A YOUTH, I SPENT MANY WORKING HOURS in a grocery store. In one of those places, a small three register market in a mid-sized town, the meat manager was a guy named Frank who, one might guess by the way he acted, secretly wanted to be a cop. The meat department ran the length of the back of the store. A long, narrow one-way glass also ran the length of the back room where the meats were prepared, enabling Frank and his meat cutters to see the customers, while the customers had no idea they were being watched. Nobody but Frank ever really kept an eye on the customers. As he moved along the sawdust covered floor, peering through the one-way glass, Frank could actually see down each aisle. When he wasn’t cutting meat, he was surreptitiously spying on the customers, staring at pretty girls or looking for shoplifters. Whenever he spotted some customer who seemed suspicious to him for some reason, he would zero in on them, gearing himself up, his face taking on the look of a man on a mission. He had thick, dark brows and his eyes were too close together, as if by being further apart some secret would have been revealed. Whenever I saw Frank hovering around the registers, I knew that he had his eye on someone who was checking out, waiting to see whether or not they paid for everything he thought they had. Frank was both meat manager and store detective, the arm of justice wearing an apron stained with the blood of a recently cut couple of rib eye steaks. I always suspected that he liked his cooked well.

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